


Rules Shmules

by LittleGreenPlasticSoldier



Category: Supernatural
Genre: College, Drug Use, Dry Humping, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Humor, Massage, Mutual Masturbation, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Recreational Drug Use, Sexual Content, flirtus interruptus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-11-08 02:29:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11072175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier/pseuds/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier
Summary: Milla is out of hunting.  She’s started a new life and is doing so well that she’s already getting further education, after only a few months.  But she misses Dean, misses him like he’s home.  And he misses her enough to bend the rules tonight.





	Rules Shmules

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inkiestdawn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkiestdawn/gifts).



_Fucking rain.  Rain, rain and more rain, like I can emote the weather right onto myself.  Is that why it lifts for just that half hour in the morning so I can run? Because God I knows if I couldn’t get out of this damned rat box at least once a day I’d rip the curtains to shreds._

Milla stares at the ceiling and rolls her feet again, cranks her ankles to try and ease the itch deep in her calves. In desperation she bends her knees up, thumping fists into her thighs, trying to work out the curling twitch in her leg muscles and hoping to hell the soothing sound of rain on the roof hasn’t been ruined for her forever.

_Well, sleep can get fucked._

She throws off the blankets, chucks her feet into her slippers, and paces back and forth in the dorm room, just once.  There’s nowhere else to go.  She could, realistically, get dressed and work out whatever this grief is, go up and down the stairs a few times.  She could down some vitamins and hope that helps.  She _could_ have a few shots of something, but she has to be up in 6 hours for day three of this course and being insensible like that just seems sad.  As much as drinking enough to pass out sounds martyrishly tempting, sitting next to girls ten years her junior, with her Ray-Bans on and her head in her elbow does not appeal at all.  She’s not ready to be the surly aunt of the crowd.  So she paces back and forth one more time, then curls herself up on the pillow, under the covers, and gives in to the second most self-damaging thing she can do - she texts Dean.

“I think one of the professors is a shapeshifter,” she starts.  It’s been five months since she left the life.  She went cold turkey, she did.  Walked away with a sad smile, a gifted Johnny Walker from Sam and lingering hug from Dean, with promises of long lives and yearly updates, and they agreed that it was best if they were all past tense to each other from then on.  Three days later Dean pretended he wasn’t texting her little half sentences, like that made it less true. Every few weeks, they’d both pretended they weren’t keeping in touch, and bomb each other with thoughts, complaints, absurd rambles, and whatever else they wished they could say in person.

“On Tuesday they were stunned when we asked their name,” she adds, “didn’t really know what was going on.  Fishy.”

“And they smell odd.”  She pushes the heel of her hand up and down her thigh, flexing her feet again.  “Two shots says he’s preying on idiot freshman girls, and two more says he doesn’t pick the one’s I’d like to kill myself.”

The rain falls hard, makes a sound like it’s numbing her ears, and Milla glances at the door as she hears some dorm mates go by.  “I’m outta toast!” Someone else groans.  “Let me get a spoon!”  They’ve been smoking dope again, she guesses, and the peanut butter will be eaten by tomorrow.

“You know what?” she thumbs in, hoping Dean will forgive her for journaling her gripes to his phone.  “I’m just about over living on campus.  The course is alright.  Worth it, I guess.  But damned if I haven’t gotten used to another home.  MY home, with MY bed, smelling like my quality laundry product and not this hard times bicarb whatever.  The weather is shit, the company is vapid (why?! They’re so bright? Am I old??!) and I guess I’m a bit touchy because this is the THIRD NIGHT IN A ROW MY LEGS WON’T SHUT UP! My muscles are killing me!!!”

She taps send and has a pang of regret.  Dean’s probably under some woman, or tied to a chair, or wrapping up a job, or all three.  She’s just about gotten used to thinking of them in dire straights while she’s far away, but it always makes her look at the walls and her mainstream pantomime and all the colours go pale.

“Sorry-” she begins a fresh text.  “I’m fine.  It’s just taking me awhile to adjust-”

BZZZ! BZZZ!   

Dean’s icon appears on her phone - he’s “That Guy” in her contacts, with a pic of the Impala - and she answers immediately.  “Hey!”

“You’re not old! You’re a grown woman!”

Milla’s face runs hot, cheeks squeaking tight from a smile she hasn’t felt in months, and she beams at nothing, transported by the sound of Dean’s voice.  It takes full seconds for her to reply.  “I am.  I’m full grown. Too big for this pokey room at least.”  She chews her lip at his Huh, noticing the sound of Baby in the background.

“So where are you?” he asks.

“I’m doing a course for work.”

“A curse?”

“A course. Same difference really.  I’m staying in a dorm and everyone else here is 10 years younger and bouncy and spirited and they have _hope_?!”

“Uuuuugh,” he groans in commiseration.

“They’re lovely, it’s just slowly killing me.  No one seems to have brought a pen, or read the texts, you know.”

“Have you tested the professor?” he says, half yelling over the motor.

“No,” you sigh.  “He’s gropey for the youngun’s.  I’ll get close enough somehow.”

“I know you can.  Wear that grey t-shirt with your jeans, and your boots.  That’ll do it.  Call us if you need.”

“Is Sam with you?”

“No, I just finished up a salt and burn.  He’s home with a sprained wrist.”

“Oh, poor baby Sam.”

“Poor baby me!” he says.  “Grave digging, Milla!  I’m old!”

“You’re not old! You’re a grown woman!”

“Hahahaha!”

It curls her toes to hear him laugh, makes her squirm with it, and she rocks back and forth at the fact that he’s called, that he’s broken this rule for her.

“So what’s wrong with your legs?” he asks, like that part didn’t make sense to him.

“I dunno! I think a lack of potassium or something?” She gets up and starts pacing the short distance she has, gesturing at herself as she talks.  “I can get out for a run in the morning but by the end of a day of sitting they’re aching and jittery.”

“You need a hot bath,” he says.

“Yeah, or a fucking massage.”

A small herd trots passed her door again, all hushes and giggles.  It’s not like she didn’t do stuff like that herself back when; it still shits her now.

“Wish I could help with that,” Dean says and Milla almost misses it for the distraction.

“Which? The bath or the massage?”

He doesn’t answer.  Maybe he didn’t hear her, she thinks, because noises of activity kind of cut her off. The engine has stopped, and she hears the rustle of movement, the creak of the car door opening before Dean says “Hang on a minute.”  Then it’s fabric and a steady shushing sound and she figures he’s holding the phone against himself while he walks.  “So are you mad I called?”  There’s a hushing sound now.  Maybe it’s raining where he is too.

“No, why would I be mad?”

“‘Cause it was meant to be cold turkey.”  It’s the shortest explanation he could use, and he says it with a bitterness Milla can’t place.

She sighs, and leans against the wall by her tiny bathroom, rolling up and down onto her toes, tightening her knees over and over. “I’m beginning to think that was wishful thinking.  I have to be pretty fuckin’ distracted to turn it all off.”

“All the huntin’ stuff?” he asks. “Your instinct?”

“Yeah.  Well, I don’t know how much instinct I had, but yeah.  What I notice, what I’d tell you about it, what you’d say back, which books I’d use.  All of it.” She rubs her eyes, realising how constantly her brain runs that train of thought in parallel to her pedestrian distractions.  “I see things and the next day I’m thinkin’ _I’d be at the morgue by now_.”

“See that’s how you know it’s instinct Mills.” He sounds like he’s working on something, little clicks and tinking sounds going on.  “But you can do this.  If you put your mind to it.  Hell you could do both.” A door closes, heavy and loud, and his voice echoes as he goes.  It sounds like he’s climbing stairs. “Did you get a good room at least?”

“What? Oh,” you roll with the change of topic.  “As good as anyone else.  I mean, it’s the top floor so I can hear the e-ver pre-sent rain,” you point out, “which is nice sometimes, but it’s the middle of the corridor, so there’s a lot of traffic.”

“And how long you here for?” another heavy door opens and closes and the echo is gone.

“Till Friday, then I can go home to my nice big bed that doesn’t squeak, and a box that’s fit for a full grown woma-”

_Knock-knock._

Milla glares at the door, fully expecting some panty-pj bouncing beauty to ask for more peanut butter, but when she opens it, there stands Dean, tall and big and life sized, sparkling with a sprinkling of rain.  “Dean!” she blabs.

“These walls are really thin!” he says and a smiles spreads over his face that’s bigger and brighter than anything she can remember.  He pulls it in a bit and blinks at her, lifting his eyebrows like _There you go!_

“Yah,” she breathes, still stunned. “Uuuuuh, come in?!”

“Can I call you sexy kitty?” he asks, pointing at her pyjama pants.

Milla looks down at her gray pants with the stretchy aqua cuffs, covered in happy kitty faces.  She looks at Dean, her face pleading for him to please not shit all over her life just yet.  But he grins that grin, lets his head lean back a bit and tucks his hands in his pockets while he licks the back of his teeth.

So she rolls her eyes and squicks her mouth to the side in thought.  “Yeah, sure, sexy kitty pants it is.”

He steps in as she moves back, saying “Holy crap,” as soon as the door is closed.  “So, only room for a full grown woman and no more, obviously.”  He turns a bit, trying to figure where to put himself, and Milla gestures to the bed while she heads for the chair.  She pulls her knee up and hugs it, taking a steady breath at the sight of Dean, _her_ Dean, toeing off his shoes so he can sit on her dorm bed.  That guy who let her plier a werewolf claw out of his sternum; that guy who cried into her neck when his brother died for a few seconds; that guy who held her shoulders and watched her blink back tears and gulp down panic when a vampire hunt triggered army-born PTSD that she thought was long gone. _That_ guy, and the moment crams days old fantasies and years old dreams into one incongruous moment with her very unsexy kitty pyjamas.

Dean plonks down on the bed and the whole frame goes _reech-a-reech_ beneath him.  He freezes. “Well that’s not awkward at all.”

 _Yup_ , says Milla’s face.  “Would you like some cereal,” she offers so very cordially.  “It’s what I have.”

Dean chuckles at her good grace and waves his hands to decline, saying “I’ll pass, thank you.” He rubs his palms down and up his thighs, ”But um… Well, you know, I thought, seeing as you clearly don’t have a bath on hand, I would-”

_Knock-knock._

You glare at the door, then at Dean - because _this_ never happens - before creeping over to open it.

Two young women from the course - Sarah and Emily - stand there in their sweats, waiting for you to answer.

“Yeah?”

“Milla,” Sarah hushes.  Her pupils are the size of pingpong balls.  “Is there a boy in your room?”

“Why do you ask?” Milla frowns at them.

“You’re not supposed to have boys in your room.”

“Why the fuck would anyone care?”

Emily pipes up beside her.  “It’s a college rule.  No boys in the girl’s dorm.”

“Well, I’m not a fucking girl, I’m a woman, and I’ll have-”

Dean pulls the door wide, joining in on the chat.  “Are you talking about me?”

“Holy fuck tongs,” Sarah gasps. “You’re not a boy.”

“No, he’s not, so it’s all good.”  You go to close the door but Sarah grabs at you, pleading as though she’s the one in trouble.  “No!  Seriously Milla! They could kick you off the course if they find him here!”

“Who’s they?”

“Where _did_ you find him?” Emily wonders, wide-eyed and taking in Dean’s tall form.  

“I found _her_ , actually,” he winks back.

Emily drops her jaw, gawping “How?”

“GPS,” he smirked, looking at Milla.

“What?! I turned that off!”

“I turned it back on!”

Milla glares at Dean incredulously, but he’s not put off. “Well, we weren’t going to _lose_ you!”  

“Hey May is chip your pet month,” Emily says.  She points at him and nods with a big, fat earnest frown on her chin as she pulls a Twinkie from her pocket. “If you love’em, you should bug’em.”

Dean raises his eyebrows at Emily and she bites into the sponge, muffling “Thought of that myself.”

He looks at Milla dryly.  “You want the good news or the good news?”

“Seriously, Milla, we love you!  We don’t want you kicked out! Because you’re not allowed _men_ in your room either!”

“Is that why the rooms are so small?” Dean asks.  He’s a few tones deeper than usual and she looks at him sideways for his shit-stirring.  “To deter the _men_.”

Milla clears her throat, noticing how Sarah and Emily lean towards him eyes first.

“The many, mmmmany men,” he adds.

“Knock if off,” you mutter.

“Milla,” Sarah starts again.  “What if someone found out?”

Milla takes another deep breath, an idea occurring to her as it does.  “Sarah, have you been smoking the sweet stuff?”  She squints curiously, and nods as though she knows what’s up.

“Can you tell?” Sarah mumbles secretly.

“Yes.  Well, _I_ can, I don’t know about anyone else.  And I don’t care,” Milla assures hastily, “but it kinda takes care of the eye witness issue, right?”

Sarah gasps as it dawns on her. “Yyyyyeah!” She slaps Emily on the arm, happily declaring “We’re stoned, so he isn’t here!  It didn’t happen.”

Emily grins, slack mouthed, and sags happily into the solution.  “Oh that’s _nice_.”

“That works out well,” Sarah nods.  “Okay, see you in the morning!” she waves and leans over to drag her hand down Dean’s chest like she’s finger painting. “Bye.  Nice to meet you.”

“Bye Man,” waves Emily.

“‘Night ladies,” Dean drawls.

“Byyeeee,” Milla smiles patiently and closes the door on them, instantly levelling Dean with her tight words.  “You turned it back on?”

“How did you think I found you tonight?”

She pulls up her shoulders, thinking of the answer.  “I dunno… bug on my car?!  Instinct?!”

“Instinct is what made me pick a hunt nearby,” he says, moving his jaw like he’s working on a sweet.  “Your texting on my way home is what convinced me to call.”

As she leans against the door frame, and Dean leans inside the bathroom doorway, they’re still well within arm’s reach of each other, with nowhere to go.  Milla’s very awake brain wonders aloud.  “Where are you staying tonight?”

Dean’s bad poker face says he’s not sure.  “Worry about it later.  So your legs,” Dean talks too fast for Milla to backtrack him.  “Maybe a hot shower?”

“Ugh, I can’t be bothered.  How ‘bout a shot of Sam’s whiskey?”

“Close second,” he agrees and takes the two steps back to the bed before _reech-a-reech_ ing back onto the mattress.

Milla digs up the gifted bottle from her bag - “Probably also contraband,” - and drops some into the single, complimentary glass for Dean.

“You’re a real rebel tonight.” He eyes off what’s left in the bottle she holds, which isn’t much, with half a thought for the occasions she must’ve spent with it.

Milla sits in the desk chair again and takes a swig.  “Oh yeah. This is the best and baddest I’ve ever been,” she says, a bit surprised at herself.  “I mean, I’ve gone straight.  I’m out.  I’m getting professional development and bettering myself with education.  And then I’ve gone and blown it all on men and liquor.”

Dean laughs, swirling the drink in his cup.  “You haven’t blown it at all.  This is good drink.”

“Good man too,” she says.  “Thanks for dropping by.”  She nods his way and toasts her next mouthful.

“Not a problem,” he says, still thoughtful and toasts back before savouring the first sip.  “So, this would normally be the part where I’d tell you how much we miss you and how it’s just not the same, but how about you sit up on your pillow and I’ll tell you something else.”

Two more sips from the bottle and she caps it, leaving it on the desk and doing as she’s told.  Dean scoots along, the bed complaining constantly, and before she’s settled into her position he’s reached over to take her right foot in hand.  “Has the drink got to your legs yet?”

“No,” she says, waiting to see what he’ll do.

With a deep breath and a stern lick of the lips, Dean puts his empty glass on the desk and turns, setting her heel in the crook of his hip as his left leg is bent on the bed, and he starts to massage her calf.  Milla sucks a breath in through all her teeth and leans over, reaching for it as she watches his thumbs drag deep furrowing lines down the bone and up the muscle.  “Oooooh fuck!  Fuck!”

“Too hard?”

“No! Fuck!”  He takes the meat of her calf and squeezes it, works it inside his hot hand, and she pushes her fists down into the mattress either side of her.  “OH!  Fucking hell!  It’s unicorn farts!  Fireworks!  Fuck that’s the shit!”

“You sure? You sound like you’re in pain?” he says, although he doesn’t stop or back off.

“I am,” she grinds out.  “It’s perfect.  Do that.  Fuck.”

Slowly Milla slides down the mattress, and Dean picks up her other leg, propping the foot on his thigh, and after warming that one the same way, he begins squeezing tight and dragging pressure along both.  Milla lays her arm over her eyes and lets pain kill discomfort, lets the alcohol make a nice difference, and mostly concentrates on making a grateful sound every now and then.

Tap-tap.  “Milla!”

“Oh fucking what?” She pops her head up, looking at the door where some nosy dickhead is whispering.

“Milla we can hear you having sex.”

“Fuck off Sarah! We’re not having sex!”

“We can hear you through the walls.” Sarah hushes like her mouth is pressed to the gap at the door.  “Your mattress is really squeaky.”

“I know!” Milla growls back.  “It doesn’t mean we’re having sex!”

“It sounds like it,” Sarah says, unoffended by Milla’s offence.  “With that man.”

“I swear I’m gonna fuckin’ kill’er,” Milla growls, but before she can stop him Dean is back at the door.

He opens it enough for Sarah to see just him, hiding Milla still laying on the bed.  “Sarah, is it?”

She’s surprised by him, right there, his chest where her nose was.  She tilts her head up without thinking to move back.  “Mmm-hm.”

“So, I’m a physical therapist,” he begins, using a seductive tone so low it’s usually reserved for whales.

“Mm-hm?”

“And Milla has an old injury from her Navy Seal days-” he murmurs smoothly, rolling that ocean-deep note.

“Mmm.” Sarah slow blinks at him.

“And I knew it would need a little attention about now so I dropped by to work out the kinks.”  Whole pods of whales, on their way.

“Hhmmm.” Sarah starts to chew her lip, looking through him, her drug-addled mind’s eye working on the scene.

“So, I’m gonna try and keep it down, but it’s a lotta work, for both of us, and the bed’s kinda old-”

“Mm.  I have some vegetable oil, for the springs, if you need.”

“Oh thanks, that’s okay,” Dean smiles, coz hell no he’s not oiling 200-odd contact points tonight. “We’ll figure it out.”

“Okay then.”

“Okay.  Bye-bye,” he smiles his kindest smile and encourages her to leave, which she does, of course, unable to do anything other than what this handsome, honey-toned man would ask of her.

He closes the door and turns to see Milla up on her elbows on the bed, and his stomach tightens at the idea of having to leave her here sometime soon.  “Hop off for a minute.”

Loathed though she is to move, Milla does what she’s told again and watches Dean drag the mattress off the bed, propping it on it’s side, against Milla, for her to hold.  Then he pulls the bedframe away from the wall, picks up the nearest side rail and tips it over, pushing it flush against the painted brick.  He gets out of the way so she can drop the mattress down, crawling over it to tuck in the sheets and right the pillow and blankets, then pats the middle.  “Lay down,” he says, “I’ll do your thighs.”

“Christ on a cloud, Dean,” she coughs.  “How many college girls did you fuck?!”

“Hardly any, to be honest.”  He sits back on his feet, hands on his thighs, and nods humbly, by way of explanation, “I’m an ideas guy.” He looks up at her, hoping she’s still okay with him being here, and tries to show her that he’s just wanting to make her feel better and not that he’d really like to _not_ stay at a motel tonight.

But it’s not something Milla is thinking of.  In fact, Dean leaving is purposefully _the last_ thing on her mind because she doesn’t _want_ to think of it.  As she crawls onto the beautifully quiet and somewhat firm mattress, Dean says “Face down,” and for an unnameable reason it makes her blush.  

With the pillow under her chest, she closes her eyes and bites her lips, thinking platonic, non-whiskey thoughts about him shuffling up between her knees so he can reach her hamstrings, and as he lays hot hands on the tendons and pushes his weight into the tightness, she drops her face onto pillow and groans freely.

Up and down he massages, kneading with the heels of his hands, even dragging his forearms down to her knee, apparently set on breaking her vocabulary for ‘pleasure’.  He keeps his thumbs from brushing her cheeks but at some point it’s already happened, and he’s pushing knuckles into her sitting bones.  “That.  Holy shit.”  She’s grunting the words.  “I had no idea that was so tight.  Do you mind? Oh fuck.  Please don’t mind.  I need this.  Oh my ass.”

Dean grins and works, and when he thinks he’s finished, his hands slow down and work symmetrically, and there’s about four seconds where he lets his tingling palms coast the sweet rise of her ass, just on their way back down to her legs.  “Should do the front too,” he says, “of your legs.”

Yes.  Milla rolls over before she can get nervous, smiling politely.

“You getting cold?”

“No.” She arranges the pillow and distracts herself with the remnant lactic itch under the skin of her legs, thinking of how much the massaging has helped elsewhere and how that massaging, that specific massaging, is just the kind of massaging she’s hoping for and shouldn’t at all hope for anything other.  “Ignore my,” she starts, gesturing at herself, “signs of indulgence.”

Dean scoffs, “Signs of a _life_.  You look healthy, like you’ve seen sunlight, and good food.”  He pushes his palms up her thighs and digs his fingertips in at the rise, pulling hard along the lines of her bones.  Milla sucks in her breath and closes her eyes at the cathartic pain. She doesn’t see how softly Dean looks at her, full of relief that she’s just as he hoped he’d find her, but for her restless mind.  “So you think the sore legs are from a deficiency or something?”

“I hope so,” she sighs, laying her arm over her face again.  “‘Cause if it’s some sort of manifestation of my hunter self, I’m so fucking screwed. _Oh!_ God that’s good.”

“Yeah? Why so screwed?”

“Hhhhhho it’s just not going away.”

“And what are you going to do about that?” he asks innocently.

“I guess… I guess I could stop pretending we’re not talking to each other and actually call you guys, find out if you’re on it or not.  If anyone’s on it.”

“You’ll end up running an underground recruitment service at that rate.”  Dean picks her knees up and runs his hands down her shins and calves again.  “We miss you.”

Milla lifts her arm a bit to peek at Dean.  “I thought you were gonna skip this bit,” she smiles.

“No, I was never gonna _skip_ it, I just put it off.”  He tucks his fingers under the cuff of her pyjama pants, letting his touch graze lightly.  Milla pretends he’s not doing that, or at least, she pretends it’s not affecting her.  

“I’m not going to try and talk you into coming back,” he says, pushing the fabric up to her knees. He slides his palm down the skin, to her heel, and back up.  “Not unless you want me to, but I’m not going to avoid you any more.  I’m gonna visit, and check on you.”  He picks up her foot and props it in the crook of his hip.  “And I’m going to try and help you feel better when you need it.”

Milla lets her arm slip up, rests it on the pillow above her head and looks at Dean.  “Because you miss me?”

Dean’s smile loses it’s way.  His eyes crinkle and his lips curve a little, but he’s thinking about the ways it’s true, and how being here has made it all so jarringly clear.  This is why he’s hated in eating in diners and why every movie is boring - she’s not there for it.  He misses her like crazy.  When he realises he’s lost a few seconds, he tucks his lips, hoping she doesn’t mind.

“You wanna stay here tonight?”  Milla says it plain and soft.

A few more seconds of thought and Dean says “Where you gonna put me?”

“Here,” she answers, like it’s obvious.  She moves onto the carpet and throws back the covers.  “If I’m gonna get kicked out it may as well be worth our while.”

“ _Milla_ ,” Dean says, doing his best ‘aghast’ face (which is terrible due to a complete lack of practise), “what would Castiel say?”

“Ha!” Milla shuffles under, aligning herself with the wall-side edge of the mattress.  “I fail to see the sudden need to save money,” she mimics, her voice not nearly deep enough.

Dean chuckles at her effort and points at the bathroom.  “I’m just gonna-”

“Sure, sure.”  She waves him off and tucks her hand under her head, and when he returns in boxers and t-shirt she only adjusts her position a little while he turns off the lights. The curtains are closed but they sit too far from the wall to provide a proper blackout: the carpark light below reflects blue on the ceiling and spills weak and grey onto their faces.

Dean gets under the blankets too, facing her and the wall, with his arm under the pillow and his hand under his cheek.  “So you found any good friends in your new life?”

“Not great ones,” she reports.  “None I can imagine telling about you.”  The rain still shushes above them and their words are secrets under the noise.

“Do you think I could talk you into coming back?”

“Yes,” she answers.

Dean blinks in surprise, but then what else would she say? Instantly he realises how self-fulfilling the question was, how daring and silly, because it’s told her he wants to try and change her mind, and if she’d said no, it would’ve been like another goodbye.

“Would Castiel though?” he asks in mock seriousness.  “Would it be prudent?”

Milla laughs a little, giving into a long blink as the weight of balmy muscles drags her down to rest.  “I think he’d still be stuck on us sharing a bed.”  She frowns with her eyes closed, trying his gravelly tone again.  “Sharing a single bed is both impractical and awkward, not to mention the strain it might put on your relationship.  Sleeping with someone is uniquely intimate and would only serve to confuse and complicate your relationship.”  She smiles and looks at him between heavy blinks, breathing deeply when her eyes slip shut again.

“You think this will complicate things?” Dean asks.  He has no intention of closing his eyes.

“I think this is exactly as complicated as our relationship already is,” she sighs.

Her eyelashes are a smudged shadow on her cheeks, cute curls of hair every which way, and he looks at the curve and bow of her mouth.  She’s always been all the way over there, even when he’s so often the nearest person to her.  So many times he’s wondered if he could keep everyone else away, just get between them and her, so he can have her to himself, and he wonders if she’s ever noticed.

Dean pulls his arm out from under the pillow and slides onto his back, resting his hands on his chest as he looks at the glowing patch of light on the ceiling.  He settles into his spot asking “This okay?”

Milla tucks her hand around his upper arm and rests her mouth atop his shoulder, her hair tickling his ear.  “Mmmm, s’good,” then, her head pops up with, “Oh hey, I forgot to ask if you’re okay! From the hunt!”  She’s almost leaning over him.  It’s just a few inches.  “D’you need- _hmm!”_

Dean’s leaned up and kissed her, soft and sure, with his hand on her cheek to help hold her still.  And when he pulls away to check her thoughts, she looks at his eyes, then his mouth, stunned and speechless, so he kisses her again before she can make up her mind.

She does though, tilting to fit and reaching a bit.  Dean stops long enough to get on his elbow, so he can lean up properly, then hold her to the kiss as he tips back onto the pillow, taking her with him.  He slides his arm along the pillow’s edge, rolling and shifting so they can lay side by side again, in the middle this time, and hugs her.

He presses her up against him, chests and bellies warm, her thigh slipping between his as he wraps an ankle around her calf and cups her jaw to keep her lips within reach.  “Holy crap,” she sighs, properly woken again. “So… you think this makes things less or more complicated?” 

“Less,” he says, full of heavy conviction.

“Okay, we’re going to have a serious conversation about what complicated actually means,” she tells him, and places a palm over his cheek.  She slides her touch over his ear, down his neck, and Dean rubs his hand up and down the muscles of her back, firm and urgent.

“Yeah?  When’re we going to fit that in?”

She doesn’t even hesitate. “On the way back to the bunker, I guess.”

The way Dean kisses her this time is hard enough to make her gasp, frown for it, and moan.  He pulls her to him, against him, drinks her in, and only breaks to let her breathe before pressing into her again, licking his tongue up hers and humming hard in its last moments.  “You mean that?” he asks hastily.

“Yeah,” she breathes, barely.  “I mean, I think I’m doin’ okay out here, but I’ve been kidding myself about… myself.  And you.”

Dean drags his hand over her hair as she talks, down her shoulder, nods like he’s really listening and waits politely for her sentence to end so he can kiss her again.  This time he unhooks his leg from around hers, tucks his toes under her ankle and sort of kicks her foot with his heel so he can reach her knee and yank it up behind him.

She’s quick to reply, her leg wrapping and pulling, and Dean helps with a broad hand on her hip.  He shifts the thickness of his thigh into the seat of her stretch cotton smiling-kitty pyjama pants and feels the tops of her thighs either side, pushes into everything between them, too.

“Oh, shit, Dean,” Milla gasps, knocking her forehead on his before looking at him with eyes that ask what he means to do.  But Dean’s gaze is fixed, steady with want, and he replies, tests the moment, with pushing his leg up and forward, and using his grip to roll her hips onto the firm muscle.

Milla closes her eyes, sighing ”Oh, fuck” at the sweet sensations, and Dean does it again, and again.  

He keeps going, watching her feel what he’s doing to her, collecting all her little reactions - her fingers snatching his arm, her brow creasing, and her breath tightening, all in time with the steady rock of his leg into her groin.

He keeps going, past her questioning frown, past her swallowed gasps, and through her warning “Dean?  Dean, seriously- that- I’m-”.  He keeps rocking the pressure, right up to where her whole body pulls on him and her legs squeeze so tight he can hardly move.  He grunts at the strength, not realising his mumbling _Yeah, yeah go on_.

“HA-oh _fuck!”_ she sighs, high and gripping, and Dean kisses her cheek to watch her tremble down her throat and quake over his leg.

“Oh God,” she groans, panting and blinking at him.  “I can’t believe you just did that.”

Dean looks like he’d be panting too, if he wasn’t wound so tight.  He looks over her evasively, flicking an eyebrow as he tries to smirk it off, but he’s still a little worried he went too far.

“Can I-?” Milla moves her hand down his belly, letting her knuckles slide over his full cock and make him gasp.  “Can I help?”

Not too far at all then.  The boxer shorts are old enough to sit a bit loose on his waist, and do nothing to hide or hold him.  She strokes softly until he’s opened his eyes again, watches him lick his lip in for bite while he tries to think of what he’ll ask for… “Anything,” he grunts, her last stroke flicking the tip.  “Anything you want is fine.”

“I don’t… have any stuff,” she says quietly, suggesting guiltily that she hasn’t any protection.

“Yeah me neither,” Dean admits.

“You know what though,” Milla says, and takes hold of his hip and curling herself so her public bone drags up and down his rigid cock.  Dean groans _Mmmm_ , and she gives him a second before saying,  “I’m pretty sure I have a spare pair of shorts.”  He twitches his brow at her, and she explains “Because they’re comfy.”

“Huh.  So, what’s your idea?”

“More of this,” she says, slipping her leg over his hip and tucking her arm around his back.  She smears herself against him and he sucks a deep breath at the feeling of her body sliding along the length of his.  “More until you’ve had enough.”

“Hmm,” Dean nods once, closing his eyes again and not noticing until he needs to tell her something.  “That’s uh-” The arm beneath her, under the pillow, finds it way out, folding over so he can cup her head a little and brush her hair.  His other hand finds its way back down to her ass, fingers spread wide and hooked firmly so he can scoop his hips into hers, a generous long drag, to make the hot pressure and dry friction work for him.  “If you’re okay with that.  I don’t mind.”

“I’d really like to return the favour.”  Carefully Milla shifts her leg over him, hooking her calf over the rise of his hip so she can hold on above the action.  Then she takes his hand and leads it to her breast, presses his palm to the fullness, humming when he swipes his thumb over the nipple.  His instinct then is to kiss her, to curl over and help himself to her bust, but in the wrench and pull of their lips their bodies rolling into each other he can’t ignore how much he wants some release.

He moves again, finding a good spot against her while she adjusts herself too, and on the next go she jolts “Mm!”, swallowing her surprise at the accuracy.  He ruts again, trying to find what’s good for them both, and she matches him, scooping up when he tucks back.  His throat tightens, moans hovering over each breath, and Milla watches his eyelashes press down on his cheek, his full lips dropping open while he concentrates on the feeling.  

Back and forth Dean ruts, and she moves with him, letting him tip into her, sliding his hips over her lower leg and fucking the fabric between them - _Bone on boner,_ she thinks.  

He loses track of being quiet, or self-conscious.  Milla listens to his gentle aches, little grunts, and stares at nothing over his shoulder while she commits to memory the sounds and feeling of him pulling at her, his breath damp on her neck and his whole body writhing between her arms and legs, wanting her.

“Uh, fuck, Mill,” he puffs, tucking his nose behind her ear.  “How is this so nice?”

“Maybe,” she pants back, hearing how worked up she is too. He’s been knocking her clit, pushing her softness about, and it’s not just a delicious feeling, it’s the act.  “Maybe because it’s like what we might do later.”

Dean turns his face to hers, his hand in her hair to hold her while he kisses her lips, full and frowning.  He fucks himself against her and reaches down her back, over her hip, making her arch backwards as he curls over to reach.  With her knee under his elbow, his fingers slide over her cheek and into the warmth, finding dampness wicked through the fabric, and presses his fingers into her pussy, right into the dint, his hips going as fast as they want.

She yelps inside her mouth, into his, and slips a shaky hold on his arm, his shoulder, then up into his hair while her body tips over another peak, and she feels him groan hard and push against her, holding their bodies still while everything between them trembles and quakes.

Dean doesn’t ease off, just drops his jaw so they can breathe with their noses mashed. He hums and grunts short _Mm!mm, Ha-ah_ sounds as he pulses into the fabric, and lets his fingers relax against her.  

“Jesus I am so glad you’re coming back,” he pants.

“Me too,” Milla pants back.  “Very.”

With a flat hand he rubs along the crease of her, and they both slowly soften a little more with each breath, legs and arms giving up a few inches.

“Just, uh, gimme a minute.”  He pulls away, well before either of them could say it’s over, and crawls to the edge of the mattress, which is only a step away from the bathroom.  In there he carefully cleans up, Milla chucking her bag by the door with a “They’re in the middle section.”

Dean reappears in her shabbiest track pants - a faded navy bird print - and comes back to the warmth of the covers, smiling broadly at her as he lays down and pulls her close.  The kisses are fat and affectionate and he happily wraps his arms around her.  “Didn’t wanna have to interrupt this bit,” he explains.

“Very sensible,” she sighs, adjusting her head on his arm. “You didn’t find the shorts?”

“Nope, not there. It was these or the panda panties.”

Milla frowns the few seconds it takes her to realise which he means.  “You mean the comfy cow ones?”

“They’re pandas,” he corrects, “but probably.  You really like animals on your underwear huh.”

“Uh pretty sure they’re cows,” she says.  “I’ve had’em for years.  And yes.  It’s fun.”

“Well, maybe you should get some more,” he says.  Quietly he leads her hands around the back of the pants, guiding her fingers into a two-inch hole atop the centre seem.

“Oooh, shit! Sorry!” She looks up at him and he laughs with his eyes closed.  “Yeah, maybe I’ll dash out and get some more.”

“Something fancy?” he says, peeking out one eye.

“You mean with lace and shit?!”

“Yeah.” He squirms affectionately.  “Yeah I wouldn’t mind seeing something like that.”

“You’re a dork.” Milla’s already thinking of which stores she’ll head back to, the ones familiar to the bunker and her old life, and _lace for Dean_.  A sense of direction has started to bloom in her and her mind finds a calm she’s missed for months.  “I’ll still be getting some puppy prints or something.  Maybe tigers this time.”

Dean’s already started that slow, heavy breath of someone slipping into sleep.  “If y’like.  You really want an animal on your pants though, I’m y’tiger.”  He’s still awake enough to squeeze her once and smirk.

Milla giggles inside his arms and it makes Dean’s smile grow wide.  He kisses her brow, chuckling at her low _Rrrrowl_.

Milla hasn’t been this well rested in forever, almost literally, but she still manages to get out a few last words  “Thank you for visiting me,” she murmurs, “breaking the rules with me.”  He gives a half squeeze in reply.  “I cannot wait to be kicked outta here.”  

Dean smiles again, because he has his Milla back.  “I’d break all the rules for you sweetheart.”


End file.
